


it looks ugly but it's clean

by bpddennis



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood and Injury, Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 19:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bpddennis/pseuds/bpddennis
Summary: Mac finds out that Dennis has been relapsing.





	it looks ugly but it's clean

**Author's Note:**

> i had a bad night the other night and projected onto one (1) dennis reynolds, pls read tags for any trigger warnings!!!

It’s bad again.

Not to Dennis, no, but it would look bad to any other functioning, stable human being. Any normal member of society would see Dennis and immediately turn the other way.

And he’s back to keeping his sleeves rolled to his wrists, swallowing his heart down his throat, itching at his mangled thighs the second his jeans come off at the end of the day. He’s back to showers that sting, back to repressing everything (but it’s not like he wasn’t already doing that anyways).

He’s back to hiding his razors from Mac, because Mac would be confiscating them from Dennis if he knew Dennis was up to no fucking good again. He keeps them on the inside of his pillow case, in his left shoe at night, in the backseat of the Range Rover in a sunglasses case. He thinks nothing of it, why should he, why would he? This has always been in his life. Relapse after relapse, coffee as a meal replacement, slitting his pale skin, starving himself until he couldn’t walk, bad coping mechanism x after bad coping mechanism y.

It’s routine, and it’s comfortable, why should he be expected to quit? Why would he quit the one thing that makes sense?

The gang is rambling about something in the bar and Dennis is scratching at his ear. Charlie is getting worked up, voice all high pitched and eerie and Dennis is pinching his left wrist. Dee is rolling her eyes at Frank and Dennis is bouncing his foot against the bar stool he’s sitting on. Dennis is itching to go home and rip his body apart to make the shaking stop. Again, he doesn’t think anything of it.

And he probably should have.

He probably should have thought through the consequences of his actions.

Because he and Mac are making out in his bed later (because why wouldn’t they be?) and it’s the calmest Dennis has felt all day. Mac is peeling his own shirt off, and frantically ripping Dennis’ off a moment after. Dennis attaches his mouth to Mac’s neck to suck bruises into the sweaty skin. Mac gently pushes Dennis on his back in the darkness of the room.

Moonlight trickles in, just enough. Mac is just about to start a trail of kisses down Dennis’ torso and chest until he doesn’t. Until he stops.

Dennis’ eyes open when he feels Mac’s hesitation, when he feels Mac’s hands rest so delicately on his body at a halt.

“Den –“ Mac whispers. The moonlight enters the room just enough for Mac to see the past week’s destruction.

There are scars and accompanying angry, red razor lines scattering Dennis’ pale body. Some on his chest, multiple on his hip bones. Mac can make out nail indents on Dennis’ shoulders. Before Dennis can add up what Mac is looking at, Mac is snatching Dennis’ wrists and holding them up in speculation. Just as Mac would suspect, more lines and scars have patterned Dennis’ arms. Mac swallows a cry, swallows any hope that Dennis could ever possibly get better.

“Den, what – I thought –“ He tries to formulate a sentence, any kind of words, as he looks from Dennis’ wrists to the bitter look on his face. Dennis tries to free his grasp, tries to yank his wrists out of Mac’s tight grip.

“Let go of my wrists.” Dennis growls.

Mac lets go dejectedly, sadness clear on his face. Dennis aches for a distraction immediately; he’s already back to gripping Mac’s face in his hands and kissing him, letting his mouth trail from Mac’s lips to his throat.

“Are we gonna fuck, or what?” Dennis inquires in Mac's ear, almost snarling.

Mac shakes Dennis off, puts his hands on Dennis’ shoulders to push him away against the headboard.

“I wanna talk about this, Den.” Mac weakly replies. He’s sitting back on his feet on the bed, still giving Dennis that empathetic look full of regret, full of anguish and hurt.

Dennis could hurl.

Mac tries to reach for Dennis’ wrist again, but Dennis pulls it to his chest quickly, like he’s been burned. Mac’s stare falls back on Dennis’ abused body; he can’t peel his eyes away from every single slash, every single slice on Dennis’ hips and arms and chest and shoulders. And it’s as if Dennis knows this. He’s nearly flying off the bed.

“I’m not some fucking display for you to gawk at or whatever. Stop using this as a way to feel better about yourself or something.” He spits, yanking what he thinks is his shirt over his torso. (It’s Mac’s worn RIOT shirt. They both ignore the fact).

“Den, I’m not trying to – to hurt you, or something, I want to help you, I want to know why you’re doing this again.” Mac defends, confusion and sadness dripping in his voice. He gets off the bed and walks to Dennis who is rustling with a pair of inside-out jeans on the floor. “I thought –”

“If you don’t wanna have sex, just fucking say it, you don’t have to act like I’m such a freak.” Dennis is angry, voice bitter, but Mac knows that he’s about to crack – knows that his vulnerability is so close to coming undone. Mac knows Dennis is doing everything he can to keep it together. He keeps talking.

“And if you really gave a fuck, you’d just ignore it.”

“Dennis, if I didn’t care about you I would ignore it.” Mac explains. “If I really didn’t give a fuck, we’d be having sex right now, okay? But I do give a fuck! How can you say that to me?” Mac is nearly pleading as Dennis buttons his jeans and runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Why do you have to act like I’m some sort of problem you need to solve?” Dennis grits through his teeth. It feels like acid on Mac’s skin.

“Den – you should really take care of those cuts.” Mac avoids the question, replying with what almost sounds like grief in his voice. He stares longingly at Dennis, hoping for some sort of reasonable reaction. He gets anything but.

He wants to reach out, but Dennis is swiftly opening the bedroom door, fleeing the apartment without a response. Mac hears the front door slam. His shoulders slump. He wonders what he could possibly do to save Dennis from himself.

* * *

 

So Dennis goes to a bar, tries to get drunk, manages maybe two shots before he decides the drumming in his head won’t be silenced with hard liquor.

Dennis eventually goes back to the apartment – home. Of course he does. Where else is he going to sleep? Not at Dee’s, not with Charlie and Frank for fuck’s sake.

When Dennis shuts the front door of the apartment, he checks his phone. 3:06 AM. He allows himself to slump against the door for a moment, wondering when all this aching is going to fucking stop. He runs a hand along his face, grimacing at the oily residue. He decides no matter how empty he feels, no matter how broken, his face needs to get god damn washed. He almost goes into shock when he enters the bathroom, when his sleepy eyes land upon his shared sink with Mac. He halts in the doorway.

A new bottle of Neosporin. Band-aids with Star Wars characters on them. A box of Gauze. Dennis’ favorite white chocolate kit-kats. A note on the mirror:

_Den- I love you so, so much._

_I hope you know that._

_Mac._

Mac must have gotten all this the second Dennis left. Must have told Dee to drive him, or Frank, or literally any other person that is more stable than Dennis. His insides turn to goo. He can’t fucking help it, can’t help what Mac is able to do to him. He wants to strangle Mac, but wants to attach himself to him and never let go.

It’s a complex thing – to be completely, undeniably in love with someone but to also resent that person with your entire being.

He feels himself let out a shuddery exhale, shoulders relaxing. He harshly rolls up his left sleeve of his hoodie. Angry, disturbing, almost mocking lines greet him. He surrenders and opens the bottle of Neosporin, messily applying the cream to some of the deeper wounds. The medicine feels cooling on his hot, irritated skin. Pretends his index finger is Mac’s, pretends Mac is putting him back together. He picks a band-aid with Yoda on it. Fights a small smile. He places one on the longest cut on his arm. Places one more on his pulse point. It’s silly to cover up self-mutilation with band-aids marketed towards children. But something about it makes Dennis’ heart feel less tired.

He rolls the sleeve down, stares at himself in the dirty mirror. Reads Mac’s note over and over and over until it has become a memorized poem.

Mac.

Mac is probably sleeping in Dennis’ bed, just waiting for him to come home, waiting for Dennis to submit to him and climb into bed and crawl into his arms. Dennis ignores his ego and pride that tells him to sleep on the couch. Dennis drags his fatigued self to his bedroom and opens the door as quiet as he can. He sees Mac asleep with the lamp on, head drooped against the headboard, phone abandoned on his chest. It looks so uncomfortable that Dennis feels guilty for making Mac wait up, making Mac worry all night. Dennis stalks to his side of the bed, lifts the covers, and tries to drop his weight gently onto the mattress. Mac jumps awake immediately, eyes shooting open. He notices Dennis and can’t stop himself from enveloping him in his arms.

“Den –“ He swallows down a sob. 

“Please. Please don’t talk.” Dennis mumbles into Mac’s neck, sighing in relief and wrapping his arms around Mac’s neck.

“Baby, please stop doing this. Please go back to therapy. Please know I love you more than any stupid thing on this planet.” Mac cards one hand through Dennis’ hair and squeezes around Dennis’ waist with the other. Dennis knows he should do all these things. Knows it would be better, for him and for Mac, too. He should take his meds, go to therapy, go to group therapy, throw away his razors, practice loving Mac and being loved in return. It’s so hard.

“I’m sorry.” Dennis murmurs again into Mac’s warm skin. Is he? He wants to think he’s sorry. He’s probably sorry. He feels his eyes prick with tears and he rubs his face into Mac’s shirt, feeling the tears escape his eyes and leak onto the fabric. They stay like that for a moment, Mac rubbing soothing circles on Dennis’ back. Eventually, Dennis pulls himself off Mac. Wipes at his eyes a final time. He pulls his sleeve up.

“These band-aids are pretty cool.” He forces a grin, so maybe Mac won’t worry so much.

Mac lets out a breathy laugh. He traces a finger along the band-aids, along the wounded skin. Dennis’ chest tightens as Mac lifts Dennis’ arm, placing delicate kisses along the hurting.

Dennis knows nothing about this entire situation is romantic, or beautiful, or whatever. It’s nauseating, pathetic, heartbreaking. It feels embarrassing; it’s a type of vulnerability Dennis hates experiencing. He hates that Mac has this image of him, has this version of Dennis engrained in his mind. He almost has to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw to keep from throwing up or screaming about the entire circumstance. Mac places a final kiss on the middle of Dennis’ wrist and then lifts his head to kiss him on the mouth. Dennis sighs into it. Feels his body relax. Feels stable, capable, healthy, feels love and even feels happy.

Happy.

“I’ll go to therapy.” Dennis mumbles into Mac’s mouth practically. Mac just wraps his arms around Dennis’ middle and squeezes.


End file.
